Dance with Me
by afterthebattle
Summary: Domestication. That is the inescapable tragedy of marriage. Everyone must succumb to it eventually. Unless, of course, you're him. LMGW. Lucius/Ginny.


_Hello, everybody. This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction in English so please bear with me if you notice any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes. It's actually a translation of a fic I wrote some months ago, but I added some new passages when translating it, which, in some way, makes it a new story._

_.  
_

* * *

_.  
_

She is dressed in red and gold. A strangely captivating provocation for a Slytherin like him. The floating candles make the colors sparkle and it's this enthralling play of light that draws his attention to her. She is leaning against a broad marble pillar, watching the festivity at a distance. He has attended parties all his life, and as a consequence of this he has obtained the ability to recognize a misplaced guest like her in an instant.

Arthur's youngest. Who would have thought that the Weasley's gene pool could result in such a fortunate combination? But then again, he remembers her mother at that age. A quick stab of nostalgia makes the wine in his mouth turn sour. For a while the thought haunts him like an itch he can't scratch. He returns his attention to the present.

As far as he recalls Ginny Weasley has always been beautiful. As a child, girl, and now as a woman. But in this moment it is not her beauty that fascinates him. It is the reserved aura filling the air around her. To him it is an involuntarily invitation, daring him to approach. He has never been able to resist a challenge.

He waits for a while, letting his gaze slide over her. It is not the first time he has watched her like this. He has made observations about her earlier, before the war. At his son's humiliating Quidditch matches, for example, where her eyes always seemed to burn with a hidden rage, melting into triumph as her house won. He had encountered her in the corridor's of Hogwarts after the dull board meetings he was forced to attend. He remembers smiling inwardly when he'd passed her. Her stare had darkened each time, almost against her will. Such a compelling contrast to the naïve, vulnerable expression she'd worn the first time he met her, that fateful day in Flourish & Blotts. Her innocence had made her the ideal victim for the dark object he'd slipped into her recently acquired kettle.

Keeping an eye on his enemies is in his nature. He drinks in information wherever he happens to be, noting people's fears, dreams and ambitions. That way he can exploit them to his own benefit if it becomes necessary. Or if he feels like amusing himself at someone else's expense.

He studies the spinning wine in his glass lazily. An exquisite aroma rises from the red liquid. He nips at the drink before putting it away on the nearest table. Then he starts moving towards her. The girl. _The woman_. Thick shadows cling to him as he appears behind her, standing exactly close enough to make her uncomfortable. He likes the idea of that: making her feel uneasy. But she doesn't notice him yet.

Her hair is loose. It floats down her back and shoulders; a stream of red, brown and orange nuances intertwining like artistic brushstrokes against the white canvas of her skin. His eyes run over the trail of freckles on her arms only to disappear under the golden fabric of the dress. He smirks slightly at the sight.

At that moment she turns her head. He takes in the surprise, anger and sudden insecurity that spreads on her face. She does her best to conceal it, but she doesn't succeed. Her inner struggle seems almost comical.

"Good evening, Miss Weasley."

She stares at him for a while. Her eyes narrow. There is a touch of gold in the light-brown irises.

"_Malfoy."_

She says his name as if it were an insult. It might as well have been, had his wife not made the decision to help Potter at a crucial moment.

A tense silence hangs between the two of them. His gaze locks onto hers. She still hasn't turned herself around. She is simply looking at him over her shoulder. Some seconds pass and then she finally moves her lips.

"What do you want?" The tone is suspicious.

_What a clever girl._

He shakes his head; an exaggerated, almost theatrical motion. "Now, now. There is no reason to be like that. Can you blame a host for wishing to interact with his guests?"

"It is your son's party, from what I've heard," she points out, coldly.

"Ah, but who do you think sponsored it?" He places his hand on the marble pillar, leaning against it with an inappropriate boldness that she undoubtedly notices. "And seeing as _I _am the one who made all of this possible by providing my son with the economical means to throw the party," – he gesticulates out, into the room – "the title of 'host' applies to me as well. Which obliges me to make sure that all guests are enjoying their evening here at my estate."

The smooth stone is cold against the palm of his hand. Her warm skin would be the perfect contrast to the sensation. As if reading his mind, her eyes flicker momentarily.

"And you, Miss Weasley, do not seem to enjoy the party," he finishes.

She frowns. Yes, that's right. _Miss Weasley, _once again. A reminder of who she used to be. Does she miss it? he wonders. Being Ginny Weasley, the most desired female at Hogwarts (according to his son's stories). Ginny Weasley, war heroine. Ginny Weasley, world-famous Quidditch-star.

She presses her lips together. "You're fully aware that my name is Ginny Po –"

"Ginevra, then."

Her body jerks at this. The corner of his mouth curls upwards.

"Don't call me that," she says, her voice hard.

"It is your name, is it not?"

He smiles, like a satisfied predator. Her eyes leave his and drop to the polished stone floor.

"Go away."

"After all this time I thought you would have learned some manners."

Her head shoots upwards. The suddenness of the movement reveals that he has hit a sore spot. Oh, yes, he sees it clearly now. The youngest girl in a line of siblings consisting only of boys. Always wild, untamable and charmingly ruthless. And now: forced to play the role of Potter's pretty little wife. It appears that she is having trouble learning how to do just that. In time she will adjust, however. That is the inescapable tragedy of marriage: the domestication. Everyone must succumb to it eventually.

Unless, of course, you're him.

He almost wants to chuckle. It has been years since he realized that marriage doesn't mean anything other than keeping up appearances; a respectable facade for the outside world to see. Maybe he can make her come to the same conclusion.

A slight tremor runs through her body as he places his hand on her shoulder.

"Don't touch me," she hisses, but she doesn't move. One step and she will be free of his touch.

He almost wants to obey the shallow requests, comply with her words just to see the desperation seep into her eyes should he choose to withdraw. Instead he leans in closer so he is sure she feels his breath on her neck when he whispers to her:

"Turn around."

A pause. Then:

"Sod off, Malfoy."

He smiles. There she is. _Ginny Weasley._

His hand leaves her shoulder, sliding down her arm. He stops at her wrist, his fingers wrapping themselves around it, sensing the frail yet hardened bone underneath the soft flesh. The tip of his index finger strokes the sensitive skin so very gently, and he feels her pulse beating just as fast as his own.

"Turn around," he repeats.

She does as he says. Her eyes are burning. Maybe with contempt. Maybe something else. She reminds him of a rude child. The thought arouses him more than it should.

"Dance with me, Ginny."

The words leave his lips as a command, but in reality it's a challenge. And he knows that Ginny Weasley - if she still is the one he thinks she is - never has been able to refuse a challenge. He holds out his hand. An invitation to a uncertain future. Subjugation will mean nothing in this context compared to the freedom that awaits her if she accepts.

She hesitates for a moment. Then she takes his hand.


End file.
